Harry Potter and the Oracles of Myrddin
by Agent 99
Summary: Harry enters his 6th year at Hogwarts bearing the weight of loss, new challenges, and the Prophecy. His salvation now lies in Dumbledore who turns to ancient magic in attempts to save Harry from Destiny at the cost of so much more than victory: hope.
1. Some Holiday

Harry Potter and the Oracles of Myrddin  
  
A/N: Hi.  
Whoo, that was tough. Anyway, welcome to my sixth year fic. Some of you may remember me as the delusional author of HP and the Flesh of the Jade Guardian, which I assure you, I am much embarrassed by. I've mentioned at the end of that fic that I would not write a sequel for it, but that I may attempt a fresh go completely secular to Jade Guardian based off the cannon 5th book. I would have started earlier, but I was pretty uninspired until a few months ago. Have had this sitting around the hard drive since then and have finally worked up the courage to post. This story was originally suppose to be done as a full-blown webcomic, but there's no way I could manage telling a story competently that way at the moment. May link the few pages I've attempted next chapter anyway. Because I am heartless and love inflicting pain. So. Go. Read. I hope you give it a chance, and even more, I hope that you might even enjoy it-at least just a teensy weensy bit. Do review as I live for them. 'Jess' is to 'Review' as 'Justin Timberlake' is to 'Costume Malfunction'.  
  
Summary: In the dawn of the second coming of great evil, Harry returns to Hogwarts for his 6th year bearing the weight of the Prophecy. With the Wizarding World confused and frightened, the Ministry still apprehensive about Dumbledore's advice, and the Order's inadequate numbers to defend against the Dark Arts, it has become even more imperative for Harry to find his unknown power and take it up in arms against any attack from Voldemort. However, Dumbledore has added a new addition to his long-perceived plan-one of the ancient four stone oracles used by Merlin, which may change completely the means of defeating the Dark Lord once and for all-but not without incredible risks to those who survive by burying their secrets, Dumbledore himself, and the Boy Who Lived.  
  
CH. 1: Some Holiday  
  
"Potter!"  
Harry gazed toward the kitchen window where he could see the glowering face of his uncle. His green eyes, slightly duller than they should have been and marked by telling, dark circles locked onto those of Vernon Dursley knowingly.  
Dursley didn't say a word. He simply cleared his throat angrily, briefly holding up the telephone receiver so that Harry could catch a glimpse of it before dropping it unceremoniously onto the counter. Hastily, he walked away.  
Harry sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the cool grass beneath the large oak of number four's backyard, making his way towards the kitchen door. He deeply regretted leaving that quiet corner of the garden.  
The phone was still rocking slightly on Aunt Petunia's religiously cleaned counter. Harry knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. She had, after all, rung every week since school had let out nearly a month before.  
"Hi, Hermione," Harry he forced pleasantly, something he had managed now quiet easily though he was feeling anything but.  
"Hi, Harry," Hermione Granger replied cheerfully. "How're you?"  
"Good."  
The conversation was choppy and rather curt, and somehow Harry instantly got the feeling that despite her bright tone, she saw through his disguise. There was also the fact that he was nearly as familiar with decent telephone etiquette as Ron was. Harry also found it quite hard to grow accustomed to the fact that Uncle Vernon allowed his use of something that would let him fraternize with the Wizarding World (rather ironic, he thought, as he was using a muggle device to do so). Obviously, Uncle Vernon had taken the words imparted on him by Moody, Lupin, and Mr. Weasley at King's Cross quite literally.  
However, novelty aside, the use of the telephone was not the only thing keeping Harry from the easy flow of conversation he once had with his friends. Even the few times that Ron had given the phone a go and rang up, of which Harry was greatly appreciative, resulted in revealing Harry's continue withdrawal from what he had always found comfort in-them. Things were different now-so fantastically different-and he had, as the summer wore on, begun to feel a quiet separation from Ron and Hermione. He thought he could limit the pain by realizing that barrier, but it seemed despite it all, he both needed them close; yet far away-an oxymoron of a resolve that could never be actualized in this universe, therefore he was left fractured and confused.  
"We really ought to work on elaborated responses," came Hermione's voice from the earpiece. "You know. An inclusion of nouns, adjectives.aim for a complete sentence."  
"Okay," Harry replied flatly. "I'm really good."  
"That's not funny."  
"Hermione, I was joking."  
She sighed audibly, and somewhere deep in Harry's stomach, a small pang of guilt made itself known.  
"Listen," she broke in quickly, "I suppose you know the news-"  
"About Siri-" Harry stopped short.  
He hadn't mentioned his godfather's name since that fateful dawn in Dumbledore's office. He swallowed the knot in his throat with difficulty.  
  
"Um.Dumbledore told me. I know." Hermione was quiet, and Harry took the opportunity to pull out the crumpled front page from the newspaper Albus Dumbledore had included with his last letter. "Sirius Black-" the heading read, "Wrongly Sentenced by the World He Died For". He gazed at the two images of Sirius-one in his handsome youth, grinning, probably laughing his laugh that sounded so much like a bark. Another was the wasted face of the prisoner of Azkaban.  
"Right," Hermione finally replied a bit breathlessly. "The investigation took awhile, didn't it? The Ministry's feeling pretty ashamed- there's going to be a public ceremony for-" she paused uncertainly "-him. It was announced this morning on WWN. At least, that's what Ron's told me. A feeble way for Fudge to save face, I suppose. Dumbledore and many of the Order will have to attend." She paused again, giving Harry the chance to reflect on the topic. He had not been invited and for that, he was grateful. His relationship with Sirius would, at least for now, remain sacred. To further his fame by connecting it to the first martyr of the second coming of Voldemort was unbearable.  
Besides, it seemed completely useless to him that Sirius was cleared of all charges now.now that he was.  
It hardly mattered that Azkaban, once the cruel executioner of his godfather's sentence, now held its prisoners with little more than flimsy bars. Now, when Harry still felt the guilt of Sirius's death on his shoulders no matter how hard he tried to fight it off.  
Harry didn't need this declaration of Sirius's innocence now, as he had known it since he was thirteen. He had only known him for two years. But in those years, he had gained the guidance of a parent, the fraternity of a brother, things he could hold as his touchstone-his constant amidst the chaos that directly connected with the damned scar on his forehead. Now that Sirius was gone, nothing made sense, and there seemed little to fight for. How could he, Harry, possibly stand a chance in the outcome destined by the Prophecy? Especially now, without the one person he felt truly understood?  
"And you got the letter also?" Hermione spoke up.  
"Yeah," Harry replied, knowing she was referring to the invitation to a very small, semi-memorial for Sirius put together by Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore was trying to help, but it was the last thing Harry wanted to do. Sirius had faded from this life with no more signs of his death then the gentle flap of that rotting curtain. There were days Harry could force himself to live a fallacy. He would sit and believe that Sirius was reading one of his letters in hiding far away, trying to find an opportunity to reply. A day of remembrance seemed so final. It closed the book. The gathering would also be held at Godric's Hollow, the cursed place where it all began. Dumbledore had wanted Harry to see it. A place his parents once dwelled happily-A place Sirius had found solace in his youth. And as desecrated as it was by Voldemort, it still held the visage of its charm, and this, this was where Sirius was to be remembered. "So we'll see you Saturday then," Hermione said her voice now betraying forced cheerfulness.  
"Yeah," Harry replied stiffly. "Yeah. I can't wait to see everyone." He hoped he sounded sincere. "Well."  
"I guess I'll say 'goodbye', then," she finished for him.  
"Yeah, see you soon."  
"And Harry?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Give me a ring if you need to talk."  
Harry hung up. Hermione made the same offer after every phone call. If only talking made it all go away.  
He made for the stairs, passing the old cupboard he had once called home and the living room, where Uncle Dursley and Aunt Petunia where amidst the evening news.  
"And now a story for dog and croquet lovers alike-" the anchor chirpily announced. However, they seemed hardly interested in the tele as they were intently watching him-Vernon with his mustache twitching and Petunia with her lips pressed thin, both full of scorn.  
"Ungrateful scoundrel," Dursley muttered fiercely. "I suspect you'll be demanding your own phone line and other luxuries of the like, won't you, boy?" Harry stopped long enough to cast an uncaring stare.  
"I'm just going up to write everyone," he said simply. The change in Vernon's look was drastic-fear crept into his features in a way that nearly made Harry laugh. Petunia let out a little gasp, and he made a point to meet her eye, the simple act sending shivers up his spine. This woman both saved and hated him.  
"Not that I really need to, as I'll be seeing Moody and the others this Saturday. Just for precaution's sake, though. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea."  
Vernon, still pale, snapped back into life at the mention of an actual visit.  
"Saturday?" he snapped. "What do you mean you'll be 'seeing them' Saturday?"  
"I have arrangements to meet up with everyone."  
Then, ignoring the onslaught of questions, Harry turned and walked up the stairs, entering the little room he stayed in during the summers, shutting the door behind him. Scattered about was evidence of his Wizarding heritage. Hedwig's cage was sitting empty on top of the dresser. She had yet to return from her latest delivery. On the small writing table, a pile of letters, copies of the Daily Prophet, and loose bits of parchment littered the surface, while a few wayward books, clothing articles and Harry's Firebolt broomstick occupied the floor space.  
Harry sat at the desk, the light of dusk nearly disappearing completely, leaving him in darkness. He was torn, sitting alone, missing Hogwarts and the life he led there, yet dreading the inescapable realities of what had happen at his home-Hogwarts-last school year. A year ago, he would have written to Sirius-who better to understand loneliness and frustration? But now, there seemed no one to understand. Not even Ron and Hermione, his two greatest friends. He would not let them be privy to what he knew. It had been his promise. But that, in it self, seemed to widen the distance he had begun to construct between them and himself. He tried to convince himself it was for their safety, but sometimes he wondered if it was more to save his heart from further pain.  
And Saturday. Why Godric's Hollow?  
Of all places, Dumbledore, Harry thought bitterly. The rage that burned through him that fateful night in Dumbledore's office had long faded, but he couldn't help but feel slightly put out by anything Dumbledore had to say. In a way, this was slightly relieving as Harry remembered the venomous thoughts that coursed through him courtesy of Voldemort just a few short weeks before. The pain and hate and ugly evil that had filled his very body seemed to scar him far worse the lightening- shaped cut on his forehead. After a few weeks to fully mull over the thought of what he shared with Voldemort, Harry grew quite distressed by the idea. Dumbledore had assured him many times, however that he believed Voldemort would not risk weakening himself by invading Harry's mind anytime soon. For now, only Harry's thoughts occupied Harry's brain-at least for now.  
And in that, he felt helplessly guilty. There was a tiny part of him that was reasonable, and sometimes at night, it would win the battle with the part that was angry and vengeful and remind him that the Headmaster meant well, how things couldn't be changed, how life was going on and he must face the music. And as night would unfold, he'd spend the sleepless hours trying to force those very thoughts from his mind. And every night, with the nightmares as proof, he failed.  
Sighing quietly, he kept himself busy by rearranging the clutter-not really cleaning or putting order to anything. He just needed to distract himself. He kicked open his trunk, a major Dursley contraband which he had smuggled to his room without problems-he could care less now if the Dursley's realized what he had done. Pushing aside some papers, he snatched up a few books he reckoned he was finished with for the summer and dropped them carelessly into the trunk. A muffled tinkling sound drew his gaze. The trunk stared back at him blankly. Harry approached it until he was staring down into its depths. For a moment, he was absolutely still, unable to bring himself to reach into it. Finally, letting out a quiet growl, he plunged his hands into the various school supplies knowing exactly what he was going to unearth.  
"Ouch!"  
He pulled his left hand back sharply and watched as a thin line of blood appeared unobtrusively on his index finger. Slowly, he withdrew his other hand from the trunk. It was the two-way mirror Sirius had given him, the one he had tossed bitterly to its undoing before the holidays. Carefully, he turned it over and read the familiar handwriting on the back. "If only you had your mirror, Sirius," Harry whispered and having realized he had just addressed his godfather out loud, his breath caught in his throat. Harry furrowed his brow, forcing away the shadow of emotion and flipped the mirror over to read the inscription, in a familiar hand. Quickly, he turned it back around, holding it in both hands, leaving a small smear of blood on the edge. He could make out his dark reflection in the glass that was left somewhat intact in the frame, fractured by the spider web cracks that stretched across the surface. Again, the deadening weight of disappointment took over and he felt like casting the thing out the window. Instead, he carefully fished out the bits of glass from his trunk and settled to restoring the mirror's surface.  
Harry managed to find and fit all the pieces together well into the night. He put it down on his desk to consider his handiwork. Only tiny chips of the looking glass were missing, and besides being marred by the evidence of being shattered, the two-way mirror was in one piece. "If only you had your mirror, I'd be able to tell you everything," Harry muttered. After several more minutes, he turned off the light and moved to his bed, stretching out, fully clothed, feeling tired, old. The normal ritual sparked a momentary flash of panic in him-the kind that can overtake one's senses in the moments right before sleep when one's demons broke free of their restraints. As heavy as his eyelids where, Harry feared the comfort of sleep, as there was no comfort awaiting him.no amount of Occulemency practice seem capable of stopping the images of Cedric dying and Voldemort laughing and Beatrix Lestrange casting Sirius through the veil over and over again.  
Harry slipped off his glasses and laid quietly in the dark, listening to the sound of frogs in the neighbor's koi pond and the buzz of a lone fly that had slipped in from the open window. From the bedroom down the hall he could hear the deafening snores of his Uncle. The past few weeks hadn't been that bad back with the Dursleys. For the most part, they ignored Harry. He ate meals at different intervals, so they were never forced to be in each other's company for too long. Dudley made every arrangement to never be in the same room as Harry. Big, muscular, a bully with the IQ of a folding chair, he cowered in Harry's presence, the memories of the Dementors obviously fresh in his mind. His solid flesh and boxing titles would not save him from that.  
Harry now had privileges, like access to the television, which he hardly watched; save for the few minutes he spent half-hearted listening to the news, and use of the telephone. He had even gained the upper hand when it came to manipulating things to go his way, which he found surprisingly easy to do when it involved Uncle Vernon, but surprisingly hard when it came to Aunt Petunia. The woman hated him, he knew, but that hate had always been manifested plainly, simply, just asking for an equally heated retaliation. But now, Harry caught her eyeing him with a stare so cold he actually shivered. She never spoke to him, not even to reprimand his existence as she did before; she simply let him be in the most vicious way possible. Harry felt the impact of her resolve a hundred times more unnerving than Uncle Vernon's apoplectic rage, and found he just couldn't take advantage of Petunia's indifference. Especially now that he knew the details of his room and board.  
Harry's eyes grew heavier and for hours, he fought the yearnings of his body, fearing what would await him in sleep. It was times like these that he wished he had mastered Occulemency. If only he could have controlled himself, if he only resisted the urge to peer into the Pensieve.if only Snape hadn't been the frigid twit that he was.  
When at last he slipped into uneasy sleep, the nightmares came.always about Voldemort laughing or hissing his anger, or Cedric flying back, spread eagle, or.most recently, and always the most painfully-Sirius falling through the veil. Except in Harry's dreams, Sirius didn't always simply fall. Harry would see Sirius in a dark gloom. In front of his godfather, the arch would materialize, the rotted curtain furling gently in some ethereal breeze. He would try to run towards Sirius, never able to run fast enough, and he would watch as Sirius muttered one word over and over. Harry could never make it out and instead he watched Sirius walk into the arms of the curtain, his word dying with him every night. And from the depths of Harry's subconscious, sounds of Voldemort's high-pitched laughter filled his head. 


	2. Godric's Hollow

CH 2: Godric's Hollow  
  
Dawn crept into the upper windows of number four Saturday morning, but it found Harry already wide awake, lying in bed with his arms behind his head.  
"Happy Birthday," he muttered morosely. The light caught his eyes so that they sparked a cold, firey green. He squinted, killing the illusion and turned to find Hedwig soaring gracefully through the open window of his room. She upset his ink well, spilling ink on the corner of an official looking envelope from school, which held his O.W.L results. They had arrived with yesterday's post and remained unopened. He managed to swipe it out of the way, saving it from the spill.  
"Hello," he said, and surprised himself by smiling wanly at the snowy owl. She hooted softly, nipping at his fingers and allowing him to run his hand over her smooth feathers. He removed the letter from her leg and carried her to her cage, where he had anticipated her arrival with fresh water and a generous helping of owl treats.  
"I s'pose Dumbledore didn't get the hint about my not wanting to go today," Harry said. Hedwig ruffled her feathers in response and continued tucking in. He slit the parchment and read. When he finished, he tossed it aside. It held only details of who would be accompanying him to Godric's Hollow from the Headmaster. It got him thinking of his constantly being watched. None of the Order had made efforts to actually contact him though, outside of an occasional letter from Remus Lupin—the last, true Marauder. This more forcefully reminded him why he hated the summer holidays so passionately—he felt completely removed form the world he belonged to. And now when things have gone so absolutely wrong, he felt even more alone. He wondered when he finally saw the Order again would he be able to ask them what they were up to regarding him.  
Harry quietly made for the tiny bathroom reserved for him that no one of proper proportion should be condemned to use, and after a few successive yoga-like moves, he managed to get himself showered. Ignoring the fogged and blurry reflection of himself in the medicine cabinet mirror, he hurried back upstairs. He could still hear the cacophony of the Dursley's snores as he quietly shut his door.  
He pulled on a pair of his nicest jeans, a good procured only after a rather elaborate exchange of wizard money to muggle and a very generous Hermione who offered to buy them for him.  
After he dressed and donned his glasses, he hastily straightened his bedclothes for no other reason than to waste the time. As he smoothed the battered quilt, his O.W.Ls scores slid to the ground. Pausing, he picked them up.  
It didn't seem to matter much now. What good were O.W.L scores against what he was destined to face by the Prophecy? If only he could return to a time when the exams might have meant something—made him nervous even. He would have written to Sirius about his fears then.  
Blowing air through his teeth, he slit the envelope and pulled out the thick parchment. He quickly read through it.  
"Five of them," he muttered out loud. "Transfiguration, Charms, Magical Creatures, Potions...who would have guessed? And Defense Against the Dark Arts. Top marks."  
Discarding the letter on a pile of his finished essays (he found homework was a substantial distraction from his thoughts), Harry grabbed a jacket and made for the back garden. He sat in the dewy grass for two hours, staring at the house that was both curse and salvation. Eventually, the Dursley's stirred and he could smell the beginnings of coffee and breakfast. His stomach growled, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the tiny bits of water quickly disappearing from the blades of grass, stripping his jacket as the sun's heat strengthened.  
After awhile, he consulted his watch only to find that it was nearly half past eight. Tonks, Moody, and Mr. Weasley would be there any moment...as to how exactly they were coming, though, he wasn't sure. He was roused from his thoughts when two primly dressed feet appeared in his circle of vision. He was surprised by who he found glaring down at him.  
"Not even bothering to come in for breakfast," Aunt Petunia hissed, her nose in the air, holding a paper plate of toast and jam stiffly in her hands. "I'm not your servant."  
Harry didn't know what to say—he just stared blankly up at his aunt. She had never before been concerned about whether or not he ate. She had practically starved him the summer before his second year.  
"There then," Petunia added in disdain, shoving the plate haphazardly into Harry's hands. "And don't sit here. You're in plain sight of the neighbors!" And with that, she turned on her heels and strode into the house. It was the first time she spoke directly to him since the holiday began.  
Harry looked down at the plate in his hand. She was even generous on the jam, given that it was peach apricot, the only flavor Dudley wouldn't touch. He wondered if this was an act of compassion, if Petunia was even capable of such emotion, or perhaps, a creative attempt to kill him with poisoned preservative.  
Before he could fully overcome his surprise, he heard the sounds of a car pulling up in the drive.  
Inhaling one of the bits of toast, Harry hastily made for the garden gate, unlatching it and slipping into the front yard. A month with not one word, and now three members of the Order were awaiting him.  
"Wotcha, Harry," said Tonks, holding open the door to a sleek, black sedan, her bubble-gum pink hair gleaming in the sunlight. Dressed in distressed trousers and an artfully ripped t-shirt, she could have easily fit in at a muggle rock concert. He could just hear the disapproval from Aunt Petunia.  
In the passenger seat was Mr. Weasley and just behind him was Mad Eye Moody.  
"Hi," Harry returned forcing a smile. At the look of the three faces that peered at him, he honestly hoped he wouldn't disappoint them despite the fact that lately he had often been disappointed himself.  
"Well, get yourself in," Tonks insisted. "We don't have this nice Ministry car all day, you know." She winked and added, "Well, not unless I decide to steal it."  
Harry slipped into the sedan onto the buttery leather. Admiring its luxury, he couldn't help but wonder what Uncle Vernon would think. He chanced a look at the kitchen window to find the entire Dursley clan staring, drop-jawed at the car.  
"Oh, dear," said Arthur Weasley peering past Harry at the Dursleys. "You don't suppose this is too conspicuous, do you?"  
"Not at all," Harry replied. "How are you, Mr. Weasley?"  
"Just fine," he answered with a kind smile. "Just fine, indeed." After a hesitant pause, he added, "And you Harry?"  
"I'm fine," he replied almost automatically and cursed himself as Mr. Weasley's brow gently furrowed. Before he could hastily continue with the small talk and gravelly voice interrupted.  
"Hello, Harry."  
Harry turned his head and met the obtuse and swiveling eye of Alastor Moody.  
"Hi, sir," Harry returned, proffering another attempt at a smile.  
"Thought we talked about the dangers of having your wand in your back pocket," Moody said. "Buttocks blasted clear off? You can live without perhaps a chunk of your nose, but try sitting ever without your bum!"  
Harry secretly wondered if this meant Moody wouldn't object to storing a wand up one's nose as opposed to one's rear pocket.  
"Right," Harry replied. Moody nodded approvingly, winking his normal eye at him.  
"Look at that," Tonks exclaimed examining a complicated-looking watch strapped to her wrist. "We're late. I'll have to step on it."  
Tonks took the wheel, driving much too fast to Mr. Weasley's delight. Harry sat quietly, wasting the minutes staring out the window, secretly grateful that no one was pressing him for conversation. He manage to so adequately loose himself in thought he didn't even flinch when Tonks tore wildly across several lanes as other motorist swerved for their lives. Many cursed loudly making sure to include hand gestures as she speed past. "Quick to get out of your way, eh?" she said brightly. There was several times during the trip that Harry felt the magical gaze of Moody on him but he forced himself to ignore it. Eventually he slipped quietly into turbulent thoughts regarding Godric's Hollow, the Prophecy, and more pronouncedly, the nighttime images of Sirius walking into the arch, casting him that forlorn look—that look of blame.  
"Harry?"  
Mr. Weasley's voice broke through Harry's thoughts and he jumped a little when his door was opened.  
"We're here."  
* * *  
  
Tonks, having cleverly concealed the car by transforming it into a curious clump of bushes, was walking at Moody's side. They were discussing the latest defense spells and both seemed very passionate about protective wand covering. Trailing right behind them was Mr. Weasley, Lupin, and Harry.  
They had been walking for nearly a quarter of an hour now, into a patch of forest where the trees grew densely, blocking the hot summer sun from their faces. For Harry, the short sojourn had mostly been in silence.  
With every step towards Godric's Hollow, Harry's heart seemed to beat a little faster, not from any sort of physical exertion, but rather from the uncertainty of finally seeing the blasted place and how he would react. Would Dumbledore's intention further crumble Harry's already bruised spirit or perhaps, shut a rusty door in his heart so that some pretense of closure could be made?  
There was only three things Harry knew for sure about Godric's Hollow: it had been his parent's beloved home, it was the place of their end, and Sirius would never see it again.  
"Absolutely fine weather!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed. "And we're in beautiful country to boot." Harry couldn't help but notice as Ron's father tried to casually cast him a worried look, attempting to pass it off as a friendly search for agreement.  
"Nearly perfect," Lupin offered. Harry saw that even with the polite smile on his face, Lupin's thoughts very much appeared in the faint lines and dark circles that ensconced his eyes. "Right Harry?"  
"Yeah," Harry replied allowing himself to finally take in his surroundings. It truly was beautiful, green and vibrant, cool with breeze and sweet with vegetation. Birds sang and indigenous animals, well hidden, scampered about. Yes, there was loads of happy scampering. It was quiet, yet full of the lively sounds of a content summer.  
In particular, Harry noticed a fat brown squirrel running quite near the party by means of a low branch. Harry was certain he had spotted it early on. Before scurrying into the shade of the trees, it took time to curiously stare at the travelers.  
"Nearly there," Mr. Weasley mentioned.  
"How much further?" Harry replied, willing his vocal cords to not waver with the torrent of thoughts that stormed his insides.  
"Not much further now—Omph!" Mr. Weasley was interrupted as his foot caught on an exposed tree root that sent him hurtling into Moody. As the ground rose up and hit the two men, Moody's magic eye exploded from its socket with squelchy 'pop!'.  
"Moody, Sir!" Mr. Weasley cried out scrambling to his feet. "Are you all right?"  
"Another attempt on my life!" Mad Eye yelled rounding on Mr. Weasley. "Did you see the perpetrator?!"  
"Yes," Tonks said, grabbing his arm and helping him to his feet with the help of Lupin. "Suspicious looking tree root if I do say so myself."  
"Terribly sorry," Mr. Weasley was saying to Moody. "I didn't even see the thing—" but Moody wouldn't hear a word.  
"Are you absolutely sure you just 'tripped', Weasley?"  
"He's sure, Moody, sir," Tonks said.  
"You, as an Auror, should check all possibilities!"  
Tonks looked down at the tree root in question.  
"Done."  
Moody looked dangerous, narrowing his eyes at her as if daring her to smugly reply. When she didn't, he pursed his lips and bellowed out—  
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"  
Harry couldn't help but snigger a little, feeling slightly guilty about finding the whole fiasco such a welcomed distraction.  
"Always on guard!" Moody was telling a rather exasperated Tonks and a mildly humored Lupin as he hunkered down to retrieve the still swiveling eye a few feet away. He stopped mid-crouch, hand above his magic eye. There, staring up at him, paws tucked beneath its jowls, busy tail—the color and consistency of Hermione's hair—a'twitch, was the squirrel. The squirrel.  
"Merlin's beard..." Moody murmured.  
"It's the same one that's been following us," Harry said.  
"Reckon it hasn't seen a lot of people lately," Lupin added.  
The squirrel peered up at Moody with a look of intrigue in its shiny, black eyes; it's bushy tail twitched for good measure.  
"Anything is suspect," Moody growled, making to snatch up the eye. "Or should be, anyway. Scram you little bugger!"  
Moody made to snatch up his eye, but the squirrel beat him to the chase. It quickly stuffed the swiveling eyeball into its mouth, dashing off to the amazement of the party. Moody's thick jaw promptly dropped to the ground.  
"Bloody animal took my eye."  
"I suppose we...erm...should chase it?" Mr. Weasley said quietly.  
"Bloody animal took my eye!" Moody repeated springing surprisingly lithely after the creature. "Dare tangle with nearly sixty years of experience, do you!"  
"You'll only frighten it more!" Mr. Weasley called out, dashing after him, wand drawn.  
"Is it hard to believe the man is nearly a disreputable genius?" Tonks said cheerfully as she too, joined the chase.  
"Do you think we should perhaps...give a hand?" Harry asked Lupin as they watched the three disappear. Lupin smiled in return.  
"Do you?"  
Harry considered this before answering, "I reckon they're more experienced in these matters anyhow."  
They walked in silence for a fair bit, letting the distance grow between the wand sparks and themselves.  
"How are you really taking this, Harry?" Lupin said, breaking the silence. Harry felt his face harden into a grimace.  
"Wonderfully."  
Lupin stopped and looked over at him.  
"Well," Harry pushed on, feeling the irritation build inside him again, "what did you expect?" He instantly regretted his burst of anger. "Listen, Professor, I'm really sorry—"  
"I'm not your professor anymore," Lupin said gently, smiling his acceptance of Harry's apology. "I didn't mean to press. I was merely concerned. As we all are."  
Harry fell quiet, feeling as if he were eleven again, no, like he was ten again and all the years before that; all the years that he spent feeling absolutely helpless.  
"I know," he sighed. "I'm being ridiculously stupid."  
"No, Harry, you're not."  
"Then what am I being?"  
"Ridiculously human."  
Harry stopped to exam this man, a childhood friend of both his parents and godfather, a former teacher of his. For some reason, he wanted to be sure that Lupin wasn't joking.  
"I know you don't get many chances to just be normal, Harry," Lupin was saying. "But embrace every chance that you get, even if that chance is in the form of sadness. It will come to your aid someday."  
If those words had been spoken by anyone but Lupin, Harry thought he would have exploded with rage. There would be no stopping the words that would flow, catalyzed by his grief. But Lupin had said them—Lupin who had lost people too. In that, Harry felt kinship. Maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.  
"How do you feel about this memorial thing?" Harry asked.  
"I know Sirius would approve if several kegs of ale were involved," Lupin answered. He smiled weakly as Harry gave him an unsatisfied frown.  
"I feel...weird about it."  
Harry nodded and started walking again. He was in agreement. After all, that's what it all boiled down to: weird.  
"Me too."  
"Harry?" Lupin said as he joined him. "Just to let you know...because I feel it needs to be said. Sirius was incredibly proud of you—he was confident that you could face and overcome anything...including his death."  
At first there was the emptiness of guilt and the heat of anger. Harry's body was both cold and hot, tired and in need of activity, much like the duality of his heart. But then there was something different. There was a little comfort in Lupin's words and maybe even—though it felt a long way off—the shadow of acceptance on the horizon of Harry's mind. Before he could reply, the sound of several voices burst into his ears.  
"We've crossed the Wizard Pollution barrier," Lupin explained. "They're erected around most wizard establishments, though you probably never noticed them before. It's more pronounced when you literally walk through one without any physical portal. Muggles are never the wiser about our establishments because of them."  
Harry nodded and forced himself to look into the sunny clearing.  
"We're here," He said quietly as his eyes fell on Moody, Tonks, and Mr. Weasley, the last of whom was doubled over, gasping for breath.  
"Little bugger," Moody grumbled, polishing his magic eye. A few feet away, the squirrel in question stumbled repeatedly into a tree, making failed attempts to scurry back up it.  
"Arthur! You're absolutely winded!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, appearing at her husband's side. "Have you been running?"  
"No, no," Mr. Weasley weezed. "Just...a...brisk...walk....I'm...fine...Mol—"  
"Harry!"  
She had spotted Harry and quickly closed the distance between them. She hugged him as he failed to smother the smile that stealthily appeared on his face.  
"Let's have a look at you, now!" She held him at shoulder length. "Still need more meat on your bones, dear. Those Dursleys treating you all right this summer?"  
"A little," Harry replied, "but I wasn't inspecting a miracle."  
Mrs. Weasley laughed a motherly laugh that warmed Harry from the inside out. There were tears in her eyes.  
"Molly," Lupin said, kindly inclining his head.  
"Remus," Mrs. Weasley smiled at him, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "The others should be here shortly, perhaps we should gather Moody, Tonks, and my husband?"  
"Precisely what I was going to suggest."  
"Excuse us Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said to him. "Ron and Hermione have waiting for you—they should be around here somewhere."  
"Right," Harry replied, starting to walk away. Mrs. Weasley squeezed his hand quickly, and he could tell she was refraining from pressing him for his thoughts. She hurried after Lupin instead.  
Harry didn't make for any one direction just yet. He took some time instead to examine this hollow, a place he was both excited and unnerved by. The clearing was dotted with clusters of trees and on the hill on which he stood, there was an old gazebo covered in ivy, overlooking a small, gurgling brook that wound down through the trees and past what looked to be the foundation of a home. It was exposed much like that root on the path, marking where a comfortable house must have once stood. The porch steps, charred and ruined, were still visible. This was the place.  
Hastily, Harry turned away, walking the few steps to the gazebo. He climbed the steps and noticed that under the ivy, it was well crafted, the wood fine-grain and cool to the touch. He wondered for a second if maybe his father built it. He gazed into the forest, his eyes directed purposely away from the crumbling foundation.  
"Harry!"  
His head turned to meet the familiar voice, but before he could make out whom it belonged to, arms flung tightly around him. He blew to clear the mane of bushy brown hair from his face.  
"Hermione," he gasped, seeing stars as she broke away.  
"Oh, it's so great to finally see you again!"  
"Hiya, mate," Ron added. "You'll forgive me for not strangling you?"  
"It'll be hard to, but I'll try," Harry replied.  
"Was the trip long?" Ron asked. "We've been waiting for ages."  
"He did have to drive from Surrey," Hermione pointed out.  
"Hmm. Never had that problem."  
She rolled her eyes.  
"Ha."  
"It was a little less than a couple of hours," Harry offered. "Plus the short walk."  
"Oy," Ron interrupted. "What's wrong with that squirrel?"  
"Anyway, Harry," Hermione said ignoring Ron, resting an arm on the finely carved banister of the gazebo. "How was the drive?"  
"Bloody thing just fell out of the tree!"  
"Uneventful," Harry replied truthfully. "Are your parents here?"  
"Oh, no," Hermione replied slowly looking slightly guilty. "Wizard type things—and Saturday being a work day for dentists..." Harry raised his eyebrows at her. "Well, actually, I didn't tell them the whole truth about where I was going. I didn't feel like I should upset them with...you know, so..."  
Ron frowned and lost interest in the squirrel.  
"We picked her up, Mum and me," he offered. "Floo powder. The only way to travel. Um...the only way to travel by fireplace, anyway."  
"Hermione," Harry said. "Just curious, mind...do your parents have an inkling as to what's going on? Do they know about Voldemort?" Both Ron and Hermione shivered noticeably at the Dark Lord's name and when Ron made to say something about it, Hermione brought her heel down on his foot. She smiled hesitantly, waving a hand.  
"Oh, sure."  
By the look on her face, Harry was quite sure her parents didn't.  
"Why don't you want them to know?"  
She fell quiet, the smile sliding from her face.  
"Think about it, Harry," she said looking away. "If they knew about Vol-Voldemort, do you think they'd let me continue my education?"  
Harry and Ron exchanged looks and it was understood that they were not to press her further.  
"Have you had a look around yet?" Hermione said, breaking the silence.  
"A little," Harry said truthfully allowing him self to turn back to the hollow.  
"Why Harry, you haven't moved five steps from where I left you!" Mrs. Weasley appeared behind them, rosy cheeked and smiling.  
"Dumbledore's just arrived," she explained, "and would very much like to speak with you. Ron? Hermione? Would you two be dears and fetch Ginny and the twins for me?"  
Harry said goodbye to them and followed Mrs. Weasley down the hill towards the ruins of the house he and his family once resided in, a house Sirius once took solace in.  
As they approached the brook, Harry spotted Dumbledore in front of the porch steps, the sun catching the white of his beard making him for a fleeting second the omnipotent, wizened figure Harry had once thought he was.  
"Professor Dumbledore?"  
"Ah, Molly," Dumbledore smiled. "And Harry."  
"Shall I gather everyone up, then?" she said.  
"That would be capitol."  
She left them near the house ruins.  
"If you didn't want an explanation from me, I'd eat my hat," Dumbledore finally said. Harry forced himself to meet the Headmaster's eyes to find a kind smile. "How are you, Harry?"  
"I'm fine," Harry intoned nearly instinctively. He was surprised to find himself deeply regretting it as the twinkle disappeared from Dumbledore's face. He sucked in a deep breath in search of words that would adequately answer the Headmaster's inquiry. "I'm getting better, then," Harry said truthfully. "Not any worse then I was a few weeks ago, anyway."  
"I hope you are still not too upset with me," Dumbledore replied. "Though, I would very much understand if this was not the case."  
"No," Harry said after awhile and a part of him felt it was true. Mostly, he was upset with himself. "May I ask now, why you've decided to do...this?" He briefly passed his arm through the air to indicate Godric's Hollow.  
"I'm assuming," Dumbledore said quietly, "that I don't have to remind you that Sirius did indeed love this place. He found comfort here in his youth much like you find comfort at the Burrow. He stayed here for long periods of time, and after Hogwarts, after he was exonerated from the Black family, he still found open arms here.  
"But my requesting of this little ceremony was mostly for you, Harry—to close the door. Let him rest. Forgive yourself."  
"You make it sound so easy," Harry found himself saying bitterly.  
"I once said to you that it does not do to dwell in dreams and forget to live," Dumbledore continued. "I stand by that, even if now, the dream is your worst nightmare. Choose to live, Harry. Sirius would want it that way and you know it. There is a reason you were spared."  
"And how," Harry said through gritted teeth, his vision starting to blur, "do you purpose that I just go on? After"—he dropped his voice—"the Prophecy. After what I know."  
Dumbledore was silent. Harry couldn't bear looking at him. For a moment he thought it was the venom of Voldemort rising in him, but he soon discovered it was his own anger.  
"If I can," the Headmaster said with vehemence, "I will bear your burdens."  
Harry turned his head in surprise at the cryptic words. Dumbledore's jaw was set so firmly, it could be read through his thick beard.  
"What?"  
Dumbledore's face was once again amiable and genteel.  
"Just an old man's world," he said. "I hope I provided you the answers you needed. I have learned my lesson and if you indeed have more questions, you may ask them later today. Let's invite everyone over for now."  
It was only a small group that was present for the informal ceremony: Dumbledore and the members of the Order, Hermione, and the Weasleys—though, not surprisingly, Percy was not.  
A small silver plaque materialized onto the stone of the foundation near the emaciated porch step. It marked the constellation of the dog star, Sirius.  
Harry found himself vaguely detached from the entire event as Dumbledore said a few words. He seemed to fly back to his senses as the Headmaster finished his speech.  
"Sirius Black deserves to be remembered for his great deeds, for his greater times, much like this place—a place forever scared by the touch of evil, but a place also of great love and happiness. If we forget what was once here and what will thrive here once more, then we forget that one felled does not mean one forever down. What is scarred is scarred, but scars are also a sign of healing."  
  
A/N: Many apologies for the long wait—I've just moved out recently and have been adjusting to the grown-up life. Um...still working on what foods are proper for dinner and what are not. Apparently cereal and pizza are not questionable. Anyway, will attempt to pump out a chapter a week. Thanks for reading and to all the reviewers, thank you, thank you, thank you!  
  
And as promised...the links to the "comic" version of this chapter—may also attempt more "comic-tizing" eventually. (copy and paste)  
  
Pg 1: 


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